Or fire their camp at dead of night,

And fly before they rally.

-Chains are round our country pressed,
And cowards have betrayed her,
And we must make her bleeding breast
The grave of the invader.

Not till from her fetters

We raise up Greece again,

And write, in bloody letters,

That tyranny is slain,

Oh, not till then the smile shall steal
Across those darkened faces,

Nor one of all those warriors feel

His children's dear embraces. -Reap we not the ripened wheat. Till yonder hosts are flying, And all their bravest, at our feet,

Like autumn sheaves are lying

THE TWO GRAVES.

"Tis a bleak wild hill,-but green and bright

In the summer warmth and the mid-day light;
There's the hum of the bee and the chirp of the wren,
And the dash of the brook from the alder glen;
There's the sound of a bell from the scattered flock,
And the shade of the beech lies cool on the rock,
And fresh from the west is the free wind's breath,-
There is nothing here that speaks of death.

Far yonder, where orchards and gardens lie,
And dwellings cluster, 'tis there men die.
They are born, they die, and are buried near,
Where the populous grave-yard lightens the bier;
For strict and close are the ties that bind

In death the children of human-kind;
Yea, stricter and closer than those of life,-
'Tis a neighbourhood that knows no strife.
They are noiselessly gathered-friend and foe-
To the still and dark assemblies below: